


All Your Dust Turns Holy

by mahoushounenn



Category: Fire Emblem, Fire Emblem: Awakening
Genre: M/M, Oh also, and as everyone else does, as i do, no this hasn’t been edited and it won’t ever be, prince robin au, self indulgent fic, suffer with what comes out of my brain unedited, trans robin
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-06-17
Updated: 2018-06-17
Packaged: 2019-05-24 08:23:30
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 3,214
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14951087
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mahoushounenn/pseuds/mahoushounenn
Summary: He hears mortality in the whispers in his mind, promising an end to this world, promising blood and death and destruction. He listens, as always— silent, pensive, unchallenging. He is the Fellblood. He is the vessel of Grima. And to become the harbringer of death is his divine destiny.





	1. Fragile Godhood

**Author's Note:**

> hey what’s up gamers welcome to my minecraft YouTube channel
> 
> please enjoy this incredibly self indulgent prince robin au fic that I wrote for myself mainly and decided to post

There is little difference to Prince Robin of Plegia between mortality and godhood.

He understands what they each are, on their own; mortality is reflected in the history books of Plegia, of monarchs long passed and of soldiers fell on the battlefield. He sees mortality in the face of his father; time lining his face, though his father, in spirit, remains ever the same. He hears mortality in the whispers in his mind, promising an end to this world, promising blood and death and destruction. He listens, as always— silent, pensive, unchallenging. He is the Fellblood. He is the vessel of Grima. And to become the harbringer of death is his divine destiny.

He also understands godhood, in its own way. He understands it far more than the Grimleal around him, far more than his father, who does a god’s bidding. He is, in his own right, a god— and Grima promises him that, too. Ascension above the petty mortals below them, the power of a terrible god. It is his divine right, he is told; the purity of his blood and Grima’s heart within him makes it so.

He is not human. Or perhaps he is. Robin can’t seem to figure out the answer, anymore, despite all of his reading and listening to others and the voice in his head. But, what he knows for certain, at least, is that he is other. Human, god; both or neither. He belongs nowhere, at least until Grima uses him for the end he was meant to bring about.

He wonders if he’ll still be in there when that happens.

He supposes he’ll find out.

The sky is clear today. Sunbeams filter in through the windows of the carriage that Robin sits inside, pooling at his feet in a puddle of light. He turns his face up towards it; feels the pleasant warmth on his face, which had previously been in shadow. There’s a pleasant wind, as well, carrying with it the scent of the fields on either side of them. 

He likes these little excursions, trivial as they may seem. Away from the castle, away from the people inside. He should like it. After all, the Grimleal love him. He is their divine god’s vessel, and as such, is as good as a god to them. They kneel at his feet in reverence, though with a destructive god such as Grima, Robin doesn’t know if they’re asking for salvation or for destruction. It’s not his place to know. He is, at best, a passive player, right now. Out here, he can imagine that he is not even a player.

The carriage is stopped at his order, and he steps out; fine leather boots making contact with the ground of the field. The grass flattens beneath the soles of his boots, and he hears the shifting of his retinue behind him. He ignores them, at first; simply surveying the horizon before them.

He makes them as nervous as much as he puts them in awe; he knows this, too. He feels their gazes upon them, though none of them dare speak up to inquire as to his motives. Why the prince asked to stop here, at the border between Plegia and Ylisse (of all places, he almost hears them think). He stares hard across the border; can almost pick out the distant shape of a village. 

Finally, he speaks. “I’m going for a walk.” His voice is as reserved as his expression is, and he doesn’t turn around to address the retinue accompanying him. “By myself.” 

More shifting; the idea makes them even more nervous, he knows. One of them dares to speak up. “Your Highness, can one of us not accompany you?” 

Robin lets out a soft breath of amusement; though he shows little other emotion. “I’ll be fine.” There’s little argument after that, mostly because Robin’s already walking away, parting a way through the tall grass, and then he’s gone.

 

 

He doesn’t quite know how far he walked. Or how he’d walked quite so far. All he knows is that one moment, he’d been inattentively walking through a field, and then the next, he’s far past the border, with nothing but sun and grass in sight. Behind him, in the direction of Plegia, mountains stretch; a beacon to home that Robin isn’t horribly rushed to respond to. 

He wonders why this is; why the idea of not returning home doesn’t upset him as much as he supposes it should. Maybe because it’ll all be razed, in the end; perhaps because of the voice that whispers in his ear that even his devoted followers will be fodder for Grima, for Robin.

He doesn’t quite know the answer. He mulls it over in his head for a moment; dissatisfied with the way the answer eludes him. It’s like sand through his fingers; he can see it, and touch it, but it slips through his grasp before he can hold onto it.

He walks further. The tall grasses brush against his arms and legs, and the sun beats through his dark clothing, making him run his hand through his hair in an attempt to cool himself down. It’s hot. Hotter than he’d thought it be. He doesn’t like it, but there’s no shade in sight, nor a village, and he doesn’t quite consider turning back.

Will he get lost out here, if he chooses not to turn around and go back in the direction of his country? Like every other action he’s done thus far, he feels apathetic about it. It should matter to him, but it doesn’t. 

His head’s starting to hurt. That isn’t unusual, with Grima; these spells come and go as they please. Some worse than others. Sweat’s dripping down his skin, causing his clothes to stick to him, and his face twists into one of vague displeasure through the pain of his head. 

How long has he been walking? Where is he going? He feels something slipping away from him; perhaps a sense of self or his very control. Which is strange, considering that his father had told him that the Heart of Grima within him wasn’t strong enough yet for Grima to seize control. The headache’s worsening, and he wonders if his father was wrong, and if Grima was about to take over his body right here in Ylisse.

He means to blink, and ends up tumbling into darkness.


	2. Awakening

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Robin meets the Prince of Ylisse and also finds out that the prince doesn’t have a tactician

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> YEAHHHH FINALLY UPDATED
> 
> This has been sitting in my docs for like 2 weeks and I just finished working on it at 3 am last night. Enjoy!!!
> 
> also. get it. Awakening. I’m so clever and also hilarious

His head hurts.

That’s the first thing he notices when he wakes up; a pounding in his head that’s settled in the back of his skull. His eyes flutter open; squint, as the world around him blurs, before gradually sharpening and coming into view. He notices several other things about him at the same time-- his dry mouth, pieces of his clothes that are missing, aside from his black shirt and pants. He even feels groggy-- an unfamiliar sensation that strikes a note of unease in him.

The light’s dim, but not dim enough for Robin to be unable to see where he is. The last fading vestiges of sunlight shine in a bright stream of light on the dirt floor of the tent, creating a bright line down the middle of it. He’s laying on a cot on the far side of the tent, and he can see from a cursory glance that the tent clearly belongs to someone, from the belongings scattered around it.

He sits up slowly; feet swinging over the side of the cot and resting on the ground as he seeks to find his bearings. His head spins-- a result of his sudden state of unconsciousness, he assumes-- and he stays there for a moment, allowing the feeling to wash over him so that it may eventually fade.

It recedes, as expected, and Robin feels confident enough to stand. He doesn’t exactly know where he is, or who picked him up, but he knows that if they’d intended ill motives against him, that they would have acted on them already, or that he would have awoken bound. Were they not suspicious of him, then? Or had they thought that he was some Plegian noble who had simply gotten lost by the border?

He supposes he’ll find out soon enough. 

There’s a sound at the entrance of the tent. His gaze goes towards it immediately, though he does not move from his spot. The tent entrance parts, and Robin stares blankly at the blonde head that ducks through it.

She looks… young. In the way her face was still filled out in youthfulness, having not yet finished shedding the childhood shape it still had yet to grow out of. She wasn’t by any means a _child,_ Robin amends in his head; but she certainly looked as if she’d just come of age.

Her mouth forms an excited little “o” at the sight of Robin standing, and this time, Robin _does_ pull back as she quickly makes her way towards him, smile bright on her face and hands already reaching for him.

“You’re awake!” Her voice is cheerful, and she grabs his hand before he can go any further back. “You know, you really had us worried there, for a little bit. Passing out in that field like that, in the summer-- and in all of those _clothes!_ And did you have any water?” Her voice shifts into something accusatory, and Robin vaguely feels as if he’s being interrogated, though not quite in the way that he’d vaguely expected to be on the off chance he was captured by an enemy country.

There’s a beat of pause between them, before the girl speaks again. _”Well?”_

Robin’s silent for a moment more, before speaking. “...I…” 

“Lissa. Are you interrogating our guest, already?” Another voice; this one similarly coming from the direction of the tent entrance, and Robin takes the opportunity of the girl’s distraction from him to take his hand back.

“I was _not._ I was just seeing what he did-- or, well _didn’t_ do-- that made him pass out!” The girl’s-- Lissa’s-- voice is indignant; a pout already forming on her face at the tease from the man that had just entered the tent, with another man following close behind.

His eyes go immediately to the one in front.

Blue hair. Blue eyes. A handsome face. That’s all the analysis his mind can do for the moment; staring blankly at the man in front of him. He can’t speak for a moment, and his mind doesn’t even consider _why,_ so instead, he just stands there silently.

It’s a moment before he realizes he’s being spoken to, and he snaps back to attention as he focuses enough to catch the last of the man’s words.

“...clothes are over there. We had to take some of them off so you wouldn’t injure yourself further.” The blue eyed man offers an apologetic smile, and Robin, vexingly, feels a strange stutter in his chest.

“...thank you.” Robin offers these words after an awkward moment, and crosses his arms over his chest, shifting his gaze away from the man in front of him. Is he still feeling the effects from his unconsciousness earlier? His head _does_ still hurt; perhaps his state had been more serious than previously assumed.

“...might we have your name?” Another awkward moment having passed by before the question, and Robin lifts his gaze back to the man’s, slightly startled by it. “It’s— Robin.”

The man smiles, and Robin feels that strange flutter in his chest again. Perhaps he _should_ seek more medical attention. “I’m Chrom.”

_...Ah._

Chrom.

As in, _Prince_ Chrom.

“My lord. Should we really be taking in strays such as this? Especially Plegian ones.” The man behind Chrom frowns at Robin, and Robin’s successfully distracted from his train of thought, staring back at at him. The man narrows his eyes at Robin, and Robin resists the ungodlike urge to make a face at him.

“We can’t just leave him here, Frederick.” It sounds less like a protest and more like a statement; as is expected of a prince. A command, perhaps, but not quite the decree that Grima would have issued that would have demanded immediate obedience and loyalty. 

It’s strange to Robin, the familiarity Frederick takes with Chrom in that he feels he can question him, and he stares at the two of them in their exchange. Chrom seems unbothered by Frederick’s questioning, however, and Frederick didn’t look quite so convinced. 

“He could be an enemy spy or assassin sent from Plegia.”

Robin finds this insulting.

“I’m not a spy or an assassin.” The two of them look over at him, and Robin sets his expression into one of displeasure, eyebrows drawing together. “If I was an assassin, I would have killed you by now. And if I was a spy, then I wouldn’t be dressed in Plegian clothes.” This is all a little _obvious_ to Robin, and Chrom seems to be delighted at his words.

“See, Frederick? Nothing to worry about.” He goes to stand by Robin, and claps him on the shoulder with a broad grin. Robin lets out a soft noise of surprise at the action, but otherwise falls silent once more as Chrom continues. “I won’t leave someone who needs help out to fend for themselves, Frederick. You know that.”

Frederick stares at Robin with a narrowed gaze for a moment longer, before sighing. “As you wish, my lord.”

“Alright!” With that resolved, Chrom turns back to Robin, and Robin is suddenly made very aware of how close Chrom is to him. “I’m sure you’re hungry. You were out for quite a while. I think Lissa’s already gone off to eat, too.”

Lissa. The blonde girl. Robin hadn’t even noticed her departure from the tent, and for whatever reason, this embarrasses him slightly. But at the mention of food, his stomach makes a noise that confirms Chrom’s statement, and Chrom laughs while a sudden flush overtakes Robin’s face.

“Yes.” Robin decides to answer anyways, even to _somewhat_ save face, and he notices that Chrom hasn’t removed his hand from his shoulder yet. In fact, he’s almost _hyper_ aware of Chrom, which, for whatever inconceivable reason, makes him feel even more flustered.

“Then let’s go get something to eat.” Chrom’s hand falls away from Robin’s shoulder, and he’s not sure if he should feel relieved or disappointed. 

He spies the remainder of his clothes neatly folded at the end of the bed, and decides to leave them for now, instead opting to slowly make his way to the front of the tent with Chrom and push his way out, Frederick behind them. 

He’s met, first, with the sight of the sun dipping low over the horizon. Blinding, dying last rays of sun painting the camp and the scenery around it a muted orange, with the first stars appearing above them in the sky. He drops his eyes, then; takes in the rest of the scene.

A camp, full of what Robin assumes to be soldiers, milling about and tending to their nightly duties. He smells smoke, and wear, and metal. He takes another step out of his tent, and eyes go to him-- some in curiosity, some in apprehension, some with bored disinterest. No one pauses in what they’re doing, and Robin stops in his tracks once more, unsure what to do.

“Come on. Food’s this way.” Chrom’s hand is on his shoulder again, guiding him in the opposite direction, and Robin has little choice but to follow.

On the way, Chrom talks to him; chattering about Ylisse and his Shepherds. Robin listens; partly out of interest, and partly because he feels, for whatever reason, like it would be wrong not to when Chrom seemed so _animated_ about it all. Robin wonders, with a mix of vague amusement and something else, if he’d be quite so animated if he knew the one he was escorting was the Prince of Plegia.

For the moment, Chrom seems blissfully unaware; smiling as he talks some more about the Shepherds’ mercenary work. He’s infected with idealism and a good heart, and it’s clear to Robin in every word he speaks. 

Should he be repulsed? Grima would surely look down upon it, himself; after all, such things have no place in the world he would raze. Grima would devour those that held such ideals in a heartbeat. 

“Robin? Are you alright?” Robin’s snapped out of his thoughts by the sound of Chrom’s voice, and he snaps his gaze up towards Chrom’s concerned face.

“...I’m fine. I was just thinking.” Robin takes a moment to carefully respond, and Chrom tilts his head slightly.

“About what, if I can ask?”

“...you are a militia, correct?” Robin thinks of something quickly, rather than give up what he was really thinking. “I was wondering as to why I haven’t seen a tactician. Every militia has one.” Robin realizes, rather belatedly, that now he’s probably _actually_ made himself look like a spy, and this is confirmed by Frederick’s voice behind him.

“That’s nothing of your concern.” The tone is slightly on edge, even as Chrom seems unconcerned about the question.

“It’s fine, Frederick. We don’t have one.”

Robin stops in his tracks, and stares at Chrom. “—don’t have one? Are you not the prince?”

Chrom looks a little sheepish; bringing his hand up to itch at the back of his head. “Well— Yes. We just haven’t found one, yet.”

“I’m certain there’s hundreds of able tacticians who would be more than eager to serve the Prince of Ylisse.”

“Possibly— but— to be honest, I really hadn’t put that much thought into having a tactician—“

Robin’s now turning to stare at Frederick, the only other seemingly sensible person here in this situation, who also suddenly looked uncomfortable. “No tactician?” How was this militia even still _alive?_

Chrom coughs slightly, before offering a smile. “Well— we’ve done well for ourselves without one so far!”

 _By pure luck, it seems,_ Robin thinks, but simply presses his lips together into a thin line of displeasure. Perhaps Grima was right. A disorganized militia with no tactician would be fodder for the Fell Dragon. Robin should feel relieved, or even satisfied, as the Fell Dragon would have been, but he can’t bring himself to the feeling, for whatever reason. 

Chrom’s insistently guiding him again, quickly changing the subject to dinner for the night, presumably to save face. In expression, he looked as a child chastised, which, despite Robin’s disbelief at him, was fairly amusing all the same.

Perhaps they didn’t have to find out about him at all. He catches himself in the wishful thought the instant it happens, his eyebrows furrowing slightly, already rejecting the idea. It’s impossible. He is the Fellblood, and it is his fate to bring this world to destruction by Grima’s hand. It is his divine destiny, has been since the day he was born.

He glances at Chrom and almost envies him for his seemingly lack of a destiny. The ability to be free from gods; to be ignorant of what was to come— what would that be like? Would Robin be content with that kind of existence, without direction, without a known destination?

What would Robin be, if he had never been the Fellblood?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chrom is a handsome man and Robin is right for being starstruck at him

**Author's Note:**

> some possible questions you might have and their answers:
> 
> do you accept constructive criticism?  
> absolutely not
> 
> why did robin just leave his guards there.  
> because it would’ve been inconvinient to the plot if he didn’t and I was too tired to think of an actual plausible reason
> 
> what happened to robin?  
> he got heat exhaustion because he doesn’t know how to not dress like a goth prince in the summer in this au
> 
> where’s the chrobin  
> soon
> 
> thanks for reading and hopefully I’ll have a new chapter up soon LOL


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